Never the Same Again
by Geale
Summary: Ron doesn't want to talk about what happened. It wouldn't do any good. But he wonders how they do it, Harry and Sirius. Sirius!lives fic. Sirius/Harry.


**Summary: **Ron doesn't want to talk about what happened. It wouldn't do any good. But he wonders how they do it, Harry and Sirius. Sirius!lives fic.

**Pairing:** Sirius/Harry

**Rating:** R/M, for a couple of sentences.

**Warnings:** Infidelity (discussed) on Ron's part, slash in the case of Sirius and Harry.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** I know I should be getting on with Come Starlight but this one has been hibernating in my hard drive for too long. I hope you like it.

**Never the Same Again**

**-ooo-**

**The friend**

"I suppose I should be off..."

Ron has finished his drink and now he sets down the empty tumbler.

Sirius doesn't say much. In fact, he only responds after he has taken another sip of his Firewhiskey. "There's no rush." He leans forward to take the half-empty bottle by the neck and tips it questioningly in Ron's direction.

Ron glances at the sofa. Then he nods.

Sirius pours.

The crackling fire throws glowing light on the glasses, on the whiskey, on the tabletop; they all gleam in unison. Ron wonders again – for the hundredth time probably, but the thought keeps returning to him – if this was where the Blacks of old used to plot their schemes against their foes. The small table shows obvious signs of age and use: there are notches and scratches in the surface, and faded pale rings here and there. As if others have been drinking whiskey at it before him.

Ron's had a lot of whiskey at this table.

Sirius sits back again in his high-backed armchair. His wand is resting in his lap. He, too, glances over at the sofa and for a millisecond Ron thinks he can see a small line appear between his dark brows but then it's gone. Sirius takes another sip.

Harry is sleeping soundly.

"You all right then?"

Ron looks up. "Um... yeah." He cradles his tumbler in his hands. "Fine."

"You sure?"

Sirius' face is almost expressionless. There is an air of nonchalance about him. One that Ron has begun to understand is meticulously crafted to hide his concern. Not that Ron in any way can know, but he sometimes imagines that Sirius invented that particular façade when he was marauding at Hogwarts. That is, if James Potter was in any way like his son. If Harry in any way resembles his father.

"Listen..." Sirius' grey eyes are gently fixed on him. "If you want to..." He shrugs, by way of completing his offer.

But Ron doesn't want to talk about it. He still hasn't managed to figure out how things got this messy in the first place and talking about it just seems so... so very... uncomfortable.

Not that he is comfortable _not _talking about it either, but everybody knows what happened anyway and talking isn't going to change anything. Besides, he's not very good at _talking_. Wasn't that what Hermione always used to say?

_'You've got to talk to me, Ron!'_

Might be that if he had, it wouldn't have happened.

He wonders how Harry and Sirius do it. He doubts one of them would ever screw things up so badly. Even so, he can't really picture them _talking. _But he supposes they have to.

Despite his efforts to forget, he can't. He wishes he could, though. And he wishes he could make everyone else forget, too. He wishes he could erase the memory of the pain that welled out of Hermione's eyes while she stared at him in perfect shock. He wishes that he could forget her tears.

But he can't.

And as much as he wishes that he could forget Lavender's soft hands on his hips he can't. Or the way her warm lips felt pressed to his neck.

He wishes that it had never happened. And yet...

"You were too young, you and Hermione." Sirius is looking at the fire. The light now dancing in his dark hair. "To bond for life."

No one had said that – then. It had been a sure thing. Not even a surprise. _'Of course Ron and Hermione are in love! Of course they're getting married!'_

"We'd been through a lot together," he says now, with a shrug of his own.

Sirius shakes his head against the threadbare back of the armchair. "You were too young."

Ron can't help himself: "Doesn't seem Harry was." If there is a hint of bitterness in his voice, then that's so.

But Sirius doesn't bite. His face is soft as he turns to let his gaze linger for a while on the slender figure on the sofa. "It's different with Harry," he says quietly.

And Ron knows it is and he means to say so but he has some trouble forming the words. Instead, Sirius continues:

"He's already had enough change and drama to last him a lifetime... He needs peace and safety. He never had any desire to explore more than he was already given."

The words could sting, if Ron should choose to interpret them to his own disadvantage. As it is, however, he is lacking the energy. "I never meant to do it."

Sirius turns his attention back to him. "I wouldn't think you did," he says, simply.

It's true, too. Ron had never meant for it to get so out of hand. Running into Lavender by chance... buying her a drink – _'for old times' sake!' –_ chatting a bit... Ron had never intended for it to escalate. While his co-workers Apparated home one by one, they'd kept on talking, however, Ron and Lavender, and finally he figured out how to be relaxed around her – it turned out that she was like any other person, after all, just a bit gigglier than most women he knew. But by then she'd had a few glasses of wine and Ron a couple of pints so maybe he wasn't the best judge – and it had been _fun_.

It had been distinctly less fun in the morning. And later, in the evening, when he sat Hermione down at their kitchen table and haltingly confessed his infidelity, his guilt was like a physical pain.

And yet.

Ron hates himself for thinking it. Merlin knows he hates himself for _almost _thinking it. For almost thinking about thinking it. But a part of him – a small, despicable part of him – is relieved that Hermione is not the only one. That he's been with at least one more woman. That he has... broadened his horizons a bit.

He drains his glass.

"I knew Christmas would be awful," he says.

Sirius flashes a weak, sympathetic smile. "At least you were prepared, then."

"Yeah."

They were so disappointed, all of them. His mum had cried, too, when she had learnt the news of the divorce.

As if Sirius can read his mind, the older man says, "Give them some more time. It'll be all right, in the end."

It comes out naturally. Ron wonders how many times Sirius has said that last bit to Harry.

**The lover **

Sirius isn't drunk. Sure, he's had quite a few glasses of whiskey but he can handle his liquor. Unlike Ron, who is looking somewhat bleary-eyed and whose cheeks are rosier now than when he sank despairingly into the chair by the fire earlier that evening.

It cannot be denied, however, that the annual Christmas dinner at The Burrow had been... awkward, to say the least.

He is genuinely pleased with his decision to return home for the night, even if it meant turning Molly's offer of a guest room down. _'Some other time_,_'_ he'd promised her. _'Next time. Definitely next time.' _But he is not sure that's a promise he can keep. Or one that he is even willing to attempt to keep.

He glances over at Harry again. No, they needed to go home. Especially when they were expecting Ron later. Not that Ron had said he would be over but it was a given. Ron's grown up with those Christmas dinners: he knows when they start, he knows when they end. He knows Sirius and Harry always go home.

Tonight, Sirius keeps to his chair. Anything else would be insensitive. Before, he might have moved over to the sofa, lifted Harry's limp legs into his own lap and sort of held him in his sleep. But not tonight. No, holding Harry in front of Ron would have been before the Lavender debacle.

They did not know what to say when they learned of it. But no matter how upset one was, one was always calmer than Molly. Even Hermione was calmer than Molly. Even Ron with all his guilt.

Sirius had held Harry twice as tight that night and Harry had never questioned him about it.

As Ron stands to take his leave, Sirius gets up too. They don't hug but Sirius gives him a pat on the back and tells him again that it will be all right. Ron doesn't look convinced.

Sirius throws the Floo powder onto the fire for him and Ron stumbles in among the flames.

"You can always stay over," Sirius says, almost too late.

But Ron shakes his head. "Thanks, mate, but I don't want to be a bother."

He's renting some flat in the outskirts of London, he's told Sirius. He knows somebody at the Ministry who knows somebody who has some connections. It's a good thing, they both agreed. To get away for a bit. In other words, to not have to plead for a corner of The Burrow.

"You aren't," Sirius says. "We've got plenty of room."

But Ron doesn't want to stay with them, not really, they both know that. And Harry and Sirius, well, they have their thing. Their routines. But they offer out of habit, and should the situation turn desperate, of course Ron is welcome to a bedroom at Grimmauld Place for as long as he needs one. But for now, he turns them down.

"Talk to you tomorrow," Sirius says. "Let us know how you get on."

"I'll be hungover," Ron grins, and for half a heartbeat there is a flash of his old self in his face. Then he speaks his destination and is gone.

When the flames are back to normal, Sirius turns away from the hearth to look at Harry. He has moved. Not much but a little. Sirius crosses the floor and crouches down beside him.

He brushes some of the unruly ink-black hair off Harry's forehead and leaves a soft kiss on the newly revealed patch of skin. "Are you awake?"

Harry makes a sound, like something between a moan and a sigh. Sirius kisses him again. "We should go to bed, love."

"Ron left?" Harry's voice is drenched in sleep.

"Yep. He'll be all right."

Harry shifts, lifts his arm and Sirius meets him halfway, twining their fingers together and giving Harry's hand a light squeeze. "Come on now," he says.

It's not much of an effort, weight-wise, to get Harry to stand. He is not a great eater, after all. The issue is more about balance and the right amount of speed. Sirius slides an arm around him and sort of scoops him up from the sofa, keeping him close to his own body. Of course they have tried magic and sometimes they still have to resort to that but most of the time, Sirius likes to be the human force that supports Harry. Even on nights like these, when Harry is exhausted after a long day.

When they are upright, Sirius slows down to savour the moment. Harry's body is heavy with sleep, his skin soft and warm and his hair tousled. Still, he snakes an arm – his right one – around Sirius' waist and turns his face into the crook of his neck. His lips move to place a kiss there, and whisper so quietly his words. Sirius shivers and tightens his hold on his godson.

Nearly all of Harry's weight is on his right leg. His left one is placed at a somewhat curios angle. Not dangerous, just slightly odd. Sirius learned early on what was dangerous and what was not. Similarly, Harry's left arm remains hanging by his side.

_'Limited movement', _the Healers at St Mungo's had said, not daring to meet anyone's eye, lest they should be accused of failing in the One Single Most Important Task Of All: to restore the saviour of the wizarding world to perfect health.

Well, they could not. And that had been that.

Molly had cried. Losing Fred had already worn her down to almost nothing. And then Harry.

It had taken a couple of days for the poison to spread enough to be noticed. Dark veins, just under the surface of the skin, had appeared first from a single spot on his chest, by then it was too late. They had rapidly flowed outward: down his belly, his thigh, his knee, up his shoulder, down again, but now to his elbow... The war might be won but it left stains.

By the time Harry was in the healers' hands he was barely breathing and spasms so violent Sirius had feared he would be torn open had assaulted Harry's thin frame for hours.

Sirius had been too wound-up to cry. But it turned out his body had simply saved the tears for later. He spent long nights, then, by Harry's side in the private room, shuddering through his deepest darkest fears.

Afterwards it was as if the ordeal had been too great for anyone to even consider asking when the boundaries had been blurred. One day Sirius was not kissing Harry, one day he was. It was as simple as that.

Like right now. Sirius spins them around gently, almost as if they were dancing. His wand and Harry's glasses are still on the table. "Hold on..." He reaches down to grab them and for a moment he is afraid he is losing his balance but Harry still has some strength left. Sirius drops a kiss to his temple when the feat is accomplished.

Their journey up the stairs is completed slowly. Harry's numb leg drags after him no matter how hard he tries to exercise control over it. He has shaken off some of his drowsiness and there is a deep furrow between his brows as he attempts to make use of his body.

It is draining but ultimately rewarding.

When they fall onto the bed, Harry is panting but he is content. Sirius props himself up on one elbow to see him properly.

"Merry Christmas."

Harry sighs. "Merry indeed."

"For us, yes."

Harry's left hand twitches by his side. "Did you see Hermione?"

Sirius had seen her all right. But he does not want to think about that right now. "She'll be OK, Harry. With time."

"You always say that."

"I've learnt some things after all. Who would have thought?"

That brings a smile to Harry's lips at last.

**The hero**

Harry doesn't always fall asleep on the sofa. Sirius and Ron might think that he does, but if so they are wrong. He likes to listen, that's all. He likes to lie perfectly still on the old, faded cushions with his eyes closed and simply listen to them. It feels... safe, somehow. To hear their voices weave themselves around him, slow and familiar. The clink of glasses, the crackle of the fire. Those are sounds he knows, sounds there is absolutely no reason to fear.

He drifts in and out of the conversation like that, flowing through Ron's grumbling admissions, his confusion and regret, with him. And he is rocked to peace by Sirius' gentle guidance or jostled – at times – by his harsh view on reality.

But always familiar. Never threatening.

A touch to his hair and lips pressed to his forehead bring him back. "Are you awake?"

Loitering on the edge has made him lose his speech. He makes a sound that has to pass for an acknowledgement and he might have been embarrassed had Sirius not kissed him again.

"We should go to bed, love."

Harry loves that. He loves that word. When Sirius uses it like this, so quietly and intimately, Harry feels like he is melting around his smiling heart.

"Ron left?" He finds his voice somewhere in the deep.

"Yep. He'll be all right."

He hopes it's true. And he hopes Hermione will too, and Mrs Weasley. And the children.

_'It wasn't supposed to happen, Harry. It wasn't! But you know how she is...'_

Hermione? Or maybe that's Lavender. Harry can't remember tonight but he does not particularly want to either. In an effort to leave the ghosts of Ron's conscience behind he shifts on the sofa, forcing his arm to obey him.

Sirius is there. His fingers around Harry's are steady. With a squeeze he prepares them both. "Come on now," he says.

There is not so much pain any more.

There was, though.

There was pain enough for Harry to beg them to simply cut his leg off but no one would have none of that.

_'It'll get better, Mr Potter.'_

And so it did.

Even so, if one is condemned to limited movement there has to be something to gain from it and Harry more often than not shamelessly exploits that territory. He winds his good arm around Sirius' waist and turns his face into his neck, breathing in the scent of his godfather. He kisses him, warm skin to skin and tells him, "I love you."

Sirius' shiver makes it all worth it. All.

The journey to their bed is less of an enjoyment, however, but Harry always refuses to be Levitated if he can avoid it. His bad leg drags behind and when he is finally lowered down onto the covers his heart is more interested in pumping blood through his veins than expanding blissfully at more confessions of love.

Sirius looms above him on the bed and his grey eyes are a mixture of relief and that perpetual undercurrent of worry that will not ever leave a single one of his family members, Harry has realised.

"Marry Christmas," Sirius says, despite the disaster that was dinner at The Burrow.

"Merry indeed."

One of the corners of Sirius' mouth quirks upward slightly. "For us, yes."

Harry wishes for the energy to touch that beginning of a smile. "Did you see Hermione?"

"She'll be OK, Harry. With time." He speaks decisively.

Harry eyes him intently. "You always say that."

The smile deepens some more. "I've learnt some things after all. Who would have thought?"

And Harry smiles in return. "Impressive."

"Mhm."

Then Sirius kisses him. The room, the overcooked turkey, his family... they all fade away as Sirius begs entrance to his mouth and half-drapes himself over Harry's chest.

The kiss is slow and deep, and Sirius' hair tickles Harry's cheek as his godfather bends over him. Harry arches up to meet him, to give himself over. It does not matter now that his left arm and leg remain drowsily immobile as Sirius' hand finds a way to unbutton his shirt and begins to explore his chest.

It is a curious feeling to have those fingertips walking over his body; sometimes Harry loses track of them, when they wander over skin that was numbed by poison but when they drift back, Harry seems almost doubly sensitive. He reaches up into Sirius' kiss on a shiver and makes a noise that can only be interpreted in one way.

Sirius chuckles. "Begging, are we?"

Harry grins. "Maybe."

"Just..." Sirius drop a kiss to his mouth, "a little?" Another kiss.

"Just a little," Harry agrees, but complies instantly as Sirius nudges his head to the side to nuzzle his neck and throat.

His godfather's mouth opens on his skin and Harry lets out a long breath which turns into a soft moan as soon as it leaves his lips. This is normally his trick, Sirius being insanely sensitive to anything that even remotely resembles kissing on his neck, but there is no shame in receiving rather than giving. His godfather's hand is drifting downward now, past his ribs and past his belly to land on the top button of his fancy dress trousers.

"May I?"

It is a remnant of days past. Of days when they still did not know each other's bodies and Harry's post-poisoning spastic jerks were frightening both of them, even as they both longed for more than talk, more than one or two searching kisses and awkward caresses.

But they have grown used to it. The asking.

"Please."

Sirius smiles. "Begging again?"

Harry looks him in the eye, and he is honest. "I don't know."

It is not because of the lifting, the tugging and the holding. It is not because he somehow manages to paint the future in lighter shades. It is not because his grasp on Harry's cock is so self-assured and so delicious that Harry loves Sirius. Not only. There is something more to it than that.

Sirius is the response, the just-making-sure question, to Harry's ever-open invitation. Even though there need never be neither.

Because Sirius is Sirius, and Harry is Harry. And life happens to be life.

When they spoon up together and Sirius, slick and hard, gently slides into Harry there is only this.

Some matters are simple.

**The guardian**

He served her well, he did. And she said so, too. Said he was good and true. Said she could rely on him – trust him, she could. Oh, yes, she said all that. Over and over and over, she said it.

He does not hate her.

He did once, but no longer.

He has hated a good many people over the years.

The house is quiet. He likes it that way. It was never a house for revelry. He knows that. He knows it in his old, gnarled bones: the house should be like this. The house likes it, too, this way.

That drunken Weasley disappeared in the fire earlier and that was good. It would be difficult with one more.

He does not hate him either (he likes his food and Master eats very little, after all) but this is not his place. Not his place.

He slips into the dark bedroom – not as young as he once was but his eyesight is not failing him yet. His eyes are keen and he sees. Oh, he sees. And he knows.

They are in bed, Master on his back and the other one – the one she threw out, erased, forgot, despised – beside him. He is holding onto Master in their sleep. That is good. He sees to him. And Master trusts him.

Kreacher is not sure he trusts the tainted one but it is not his choice to make. He takes a sweet, dark delight in that. He makes no choices any more. In that sense he is free.

He never needed to tell her, no he didn't. It was on another winter night in the downstairs hallway that he had peeled away the curtains an inch or two and dared to meet her eyes. And she had read the truth in his face, right there, she had.

Cursed them all she had, cursed them hard, but she had not broken him. Kreacher was strong. Kreacher had fought for his former Master who really _was_ good and true and then he had fought for Harry Potter.

_'Why?' _she had spat at him from her frame.

And Kreacher had told her, then, told her plain. Her love was nothing but lies and threats.

He had told her. Kreacher had told her.

He had finally told her that some who others had decided did not deserve their love really were the most worthy.

The embers are dying out in the fireplace and the winter chill will seep through the windows no matter how heavy the curtains are. That is not good for Master's leg, he knows.

"Not good," he grumbles as he gives the blackening coals a poke. He places another log upon the dying fire and snaps his fingers. A small flame springs up and begins to lick at the wood.

Satisfied, he creeps out of the bedroom.

Kreacher will sleep for a few hours, he will. Before it is time to check on them again. To check on Master and the other one.

The one she hated.

Kreacher does not hate. He pities her, he does, but Kreacher is done with hate.

He closes the bedroom door.

Master is safe.

**End**

Comments are welcome.


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